CHOCOLATE CINNAMON MACS WITH ORANGE & CHESTNUT

FALLING INTO FALL


My son shakes his head in dismay and disappointment as he stares at the screen. “You are doing it all wrong,” he exclaims, speaking to me as if I was a wayward, naughty child caught with my hand in the cake batter, chocolate smeared across my face. He grabs the laptop and begins to scroll through other blogs that he has discovered, pointing out that I, too, need to reduce my words to the bare minimum and simply offer my readers recipes and only recipes, easy to make, easy to find, easy to access. “Who wants to read through long, rambling stories on a food blog?” I have heard, sadly I might add, the same or something similar from my husband and older son as well. “But what,” I ask them, my heart pounding, breath coming short and fast, “do I do with my stories? I am, after all, first and foremost a writer! I can’t just stop writing, can I? You know what they say… A writer writes….always!”

And my darling, talented friend Nanette tells me that I am limiting myself too much, trying to contain my writing to food and that I should expand my platform. And maybe she is right. Yes, okay, Nanette is always right. But what’s a girl to do, a girl with limited time and limited finances?

So my solution is this: alternate my posts, every other one a story, every other one a recipe. More or less. And so it goes.


I have been away too long. New Orleans, Florida, Oman. Out of the loop. Behind. Shamefully behind. Deeba was left all alone to handle Mactweets but happily our little Mac Attack challenge was left in perfect hands. She selected and posted this month’s challenge while I was off wandering the world, watching American television shows about serial killers and enjoying myself. The theme she offered us was Seasonal Macarons and as we roll gently and lazily into my favorite season, autumn, this couldn’t delight me more. Thoughts of October in Tuscany, cooking and snapping photos in Italy and talking passionately about what I love the best, writing, is filling up every waking hour and dotting every conversation as we finalize details for our second From Plate to Page workshop. I have always loved fall the best, maybe because I grew up in a place where fall just doesn’t exist. I adore the cool, crisp weather, the clear blue skies, the gentle breeze that floats through the house when we throw the French windows open onto a beautiful autumn day. Strolls through the vineyards or a romp in the woods with Marty and JP are comforting and enjoyable. The trees turn rustic, mellow, gorgeous, fading from green to burnished reds and matted orange. Summer with just a hint of winter, the promise of holidays and my world turns into a place I want to stay forever.

And the food! Yes, I’ll miss summer’s cherries and plums, peaches and nectarines, but autumn fruits are beginning to show up now, teasing and tempting and inspiring thoughts of Halloween, Thanksgiving and the approach of the holidays. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, highlights apples and sweet golden honey, almonds and hazelnuts, an abundance of foods of the earth in greens and golds, creamy browns and deep purple. Figs and pears and mushrooms of all sorts tumble from rough wooden crates lined up at the Primeur’s stall whispering to me, inviting me to take them home. And citrus. Oranges and grapefruit make their first tentative appearance and nothing means cold weather to me better than the oranges and yellows of citrus, my childhood rushing back to me with each glimpse of those fragrant heaps of fruit.


Yes, I love autumn best of all. But what do I love so much to inspire a seasonal macaron? The first thing that popped into my mind was orange and chocolate. This combination of flavors brings back family holidays with a bound: each year we offer ourselves elegantly beribboned sachets of chocolate-covered candy orange peel from the best chocolatier in Nantes, slowly savoring them one by one as we sit side by side on the livingroom sofa of an evening. Orange and chocolate together remind me of autumn as it slips into winter, as one Jewish holiday fades into another, bringing us closer together mother, father, sons and brothers.

And chestnuts. How I love chestnuts in both savories and sweets. A wonderful chestnut layer cake beautifully layered with chocolate-chestnut cream and covered in chocolate buttercream is a favorite dessert, astonishing friends who clamor for more. Who thinks of autumn or winter without thinking of chestnuts…roasting over an open fire, imparting a fabulous, earthy, woodsy scent, wrapping us in a blanket of memories?


Chocolate cinnamon macarons – cinnamon synonymous with baking, warm, toasty kitchens, scrumptious holiday snacks and lazy Sunday mornings – sandwiching a rich, creamy dark chocolate ganache. And more: in half the macarons I placed a dollop of tangy, sweet and bitter orange marmalade and in half I added a smear of chestnut cream. What flavors say autumn more than chocolate combined with orange or chestnut?


MY FAVORITE CHOCOLATE MACARONS

7.2 oz (200 g) confectioner’s/powdered sugar
4 oz (115 g) ground blanched almonds
3 large egg whites (about 3.8 – 4 oz/ 110 – 112 g)
1 oz (30 g) white granulated sugar
1 Tbs unsweetened cocoa powder
½ tsp ground cinnamon

Prepare 2 large baking sheets. On 2 large pieces of white paper the size of your baking sheets, trace 1 – inch diameter circles (I used the wide end of my pastry tip) evenly spaced, leaving about ¾ - 1 inch between each circle. This will be your template to help you pipe even circles of batter onto the parchment paper. You will be able to reuse these endlessly. Place one paper on each baking sheet then cover with parchment paper. Set aside. Prepare a pastry bag with a plain tip.

Sift the powdered sugar, the ground almonds, the cocoa powder and the cinnamon together into a large mixing bowl. Set aside.

In a standing mixer or with a hand mixer, whip the egg whites for 30 seconds on low speed then increase speed to high and whip until the whites are foamy. Gradually add the granulated sugar as you continue to whip the whites until you obtain a glossy meringue and all of the sugar has been beaten in. The meringue will be very stiff (turn the bowl upside down over your head and they shouldn’t move) and be dense like marshmallow.

Gently but firmly fold the whipped whites into the powdered sugar/ground almonds/cocoa, using a silicon spatula or the equivalent, turning the bowl as you lift and fold, making sure you fold in all the dry ingredients completely. When the batter is ready to pipe, it should flow from the spatula like lava or a thick ribbon. To test to see if you have folded it enough, drop a small amount onto a clean plate and jiggle it slightly. The top should flatten, not remain in a point. If it doesn’t flatten, give the batter a few more folds and test again. You can also fold the powdered mixture into the meringue if it is easier for you.

Fill your pastry bag with the batter. Pipe circles onto the parchment paper, using the traced circles on the template sheets to guide you, holding your pastry bag above each circle and piping into the center. DO NOT FORGET TO CAREFULLY REMOVE THE WHITE PAPER TEMPLATE FROM UNDERNEATH THE PARCHMENT PAPER. YOU DO NOT WANT THIS TEMPLATE TO GO IN THE OVEN!


Preheat your oven to 280°F (140°C).

Allow the macarons to sit out for about an hour or even longer if the shells are not ready to bake. The top of each shell should form a “skin” (it will feel like it hardened a bit when gently touched and not stick to your skin). Bake the shells for 15 – 25 minutes, depending on their size (when I touched macs that were not quite done, the top jiggled a bit as if there was still a bit of liquid batter between the top and the “feet” so I let it continue to bake another minute.) I turn the trays back to front halfway through the baking.

Remove the tray from the oven and immediately slide the parchment paper with the shells off of the hot baking sheet and onto a surface, table or countertop. Allow to cool completely before sliding the shells very gently off of the parchment by slipping a metal cake spatula under the shell as you lift it up or by peeling the parchment paper from the back of the shells. Be careful or the center of the shell risks sticking to the parchment.


When the macaron shells are cool, pair the shells up evenly, each with a matching partner. Smear a half teaspoon or more of either orange marmalade or sweetened chestnut cream onto the bottom shell of each pair. Pipe a dollop, about a teaspoon, of ganache filling on top of the marmalade or chestnut cream. Carefully sandwich the shells together.


CHOCOLATE GANACHE
Feel free to use a bittersweet or semisweet chocolate or any of the flavored chocolates now available – orange chocolate, for example, in your ganache.

Optional but highly recommended
A few tablespoons bitter or sweet orange marmalade
A few tablespoons vanilla-scented sweetened chestnut cream

½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream
4 ¼ oz (120 g) Lindt Excellence 70% Dark Chocolate (I used Doux) or your favorite chocolate

Chop the chocolate and put in an appropriately-sized pyrex (heatproof) bowl. Heat the cream in a saucepan gently until it comes just to the boil. Pour the cream over the chopped chocolate and stir until all of the chocolate is completely melted and the mixture is smooth and luxurious. Allow to cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally. It should thicken to a spreading/piping consistency. If you need to, speed up the process by placing in the refrigerator until desired spreading/piping consistency, stirring occasionally.



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A TRIP TO OMAN

I have always wanted to be one of those people, on gliding swiftly through the sliding glass doors into some minimalist, chilly airport hall after a long flight, who find their name printed on a square of white cardboard, held up for all the world to see by some elegantly dressed professional driver. Printed, not hand-written. VIP.

No longer one of the anonymous army of world travelers shuttled through so many airports like cattle, trying to figure out strange and foreign signs and incomprehensible rules and guards, pushing our way through the long lines, glancing at our wristwatches in panic or desperately searching over heads for the nearest ladies’ room, I have always wanted to be expected, waited for, treated as if the entire city were there to welcome me.

I stepped out into the steamy heat of a Middle Eastern evening, slung one of my two heavy carry-ons over my shoulder, hoisted the other to my already bruised knee and carefully descended the steps until I reached the tarmac, slightly stunned to be standing in the Sultanate of Oman. The oddly elegant airport terminal stood illuminated and pale against the inky sky, traditional arches and domes gracing the façade creating a warm welcome. Little did I realize, but once inside the terminal, as I stood dazed amid the crowd swirling around me, pushing towards the visa and passport desks with confusion washed across their faces, as I glanced across the line of robed and turbaned men huddled at the top of the steps that yes, my name… was indeed printed on a perfectly cut square of white, the bold black shapes pressing up against each other in a futile attempt to place each and every letter of my full name on that card. Yes, I finally saw my name held up above the crowd. And there I was, a VIP.

I was immediately swept off to a luxurious private lounge where I was gently relieved of my passport and directed to a snug arrangement of armchairs and low tables, encouraged to make myself comfortable while someone else handled my entry into Oman. After watching several minutes of American Wrestlemania with Arabic subtitles – cultural paradox to the extreme - I was hurried through the cordoned off areas of passport and customs, my suitcases scooped up and loaded onto a trolley and, after being greeted by my host Cathy, I found myself settled into the back of a plush Town Car and off we glided silently into the night towards the beautiful Al Bustan Palace Hotel.

Staring wide-eyed from the car window, I watched as two, three, four McDonald’s flashed by, their golden arches brightly lit oases in the night. As we zipped down the highway and left the airport behind, more of those familiar, now-universal signs streaked by: Burger King, Subway, even the red and white barber’s pole screaming Friday’s in massive letters, one after the next. Yet as I shook my head in dismay, rather disturbed to find these oh so American icons blotting the otherwise culturally pristine landscape, suddenly the majestic dome, a gorgeous beacon ablaze under her lattice robe, and the beautiful minaret of the Grand Mosque came into sight, reminding me that this is no ordinary stretch of airport highway. Although American fast food, the graceful swirls of Arabic script ribbon across the buildings which alternate with the cool white arches, shimmering silver doorways and mosaic crowns of blues and golds aglow announce a more traditional world.

I am in Oman.


But let’s back up a couple of weeks.

After a busy, tiring, fabulous weekend in New Orleans, I flew down to Florida for a few weeks of R & R with my mom and my son. Planning on doing nothing more than crashing on the sofa in front of bad American television and seeing some old friends, little did I expect to receive an e-mail inviting me to fly to Oman and speak at an evening event of the Young Presidents’ Organization. A mere two weeks to decide, plan, rearrange my tickets and write a speech, I had little time to look into, consider, accept and acclimate to the idea that I was actually going to be in Oman and speaking to a group of non-food bloggers. Used to the ways of thinking and the ways of the world of those to whom I had previously spoken and with whom I had so often shared my passions, I had no concept of the YPO members’ expectations or mindset. I would be floating upstream without a paddle. I wrote and rewrote, all too aware that I may very well burn and crash… all the while the words just flowed out of my brain and through my fingertips: food and culture, traditions and the why’s of those traditions, how to instill a sense of cultural identity into a generation gone global, children inundated with and confused by too many cultures. Food….stories….mealtime….culture….self.

I arrived in Muscat as in a trance, stunned and awed by the invitation, the voyage and the dreamlike city blooming up from the dessert like strings of oases against a magical backdrop of mountains. After a wondrous night’s sleep and a breakfast overlooking the stunning hotel garden of palms and the infinity pool reaching out into the calm waters of the Gulf, I joined Cathy, the education chair and the day chair of the chapter YPO for lunch. Greeted by two gentlemen in traditional dress – pristine white robe with that smart tassel at the neck and a small, beautifully embroidered cap on their heads, I wondered what would I possibly have to talk about. This is where the cultural differences stood out and made me pause… can one be as casual and chatty anywhere in the world and with anyone? Well, with food and culture as a common interest and bond, the conversation went off as deliciously as the meal: these were two of the most well-traveled men I have ever met, self-proclaimed foodies and passionate about wine and travel, they were as fascinated about cooking, eating and culture as I was. After describing the Iranian menu they had selected for us to taste at lunch, they continued to explain the evolution of Omani cuisine – traditional Middle Eastern foods touched by Lebanon, India, Africa and the Far East. We went on to discuss much of what my speaking topic was all about – the gestures of cuisine and language and how we teach our children growing up in a world of cultural mish-mash and globalization. Their passion and friendliness put me at ease and I realized that maybe, just maybe my talk would indeed touch this crowd. Cathy and I ended the afternoon with a stroll through the souk and a cappuccino and a slice of cake on a hotel terrace overlooking the water, surrounded by mountains.


The following evening was my talk. The entire day was devoted to rewriting, practicing and preparing… not easy for a Nervous Nelly such as I. As much as I love speaking about topics that I am so passionate about and sharing what I have learned with others, I still get excruciatingly jittery! But the evening went off without a hitch. The group – about 45 members and spouses attended the event, their biggest turnout of any event so far – was perfect! A nicer, happier, more fun group of people I have yet to meet. They came up and introduced themselves and chattered away happily, putting me at ease and making me laugh. Such an interesting group of Omani and expats, most of mixed culture or mixed marriages themselves, we had so much in common. I spoke… not sure I conquered but I saw heads nodding in agreement along with smiles of understanding while I talked and questions followed. Many came up to me telling me that I had hit home, had given them so much to think about and explained why they unconsciously always served certain foods or connected with food the way they did. Whew… the talk over and we passed onto dinner.

The restaurant’s French chef prepared the perfect meal for an event on Food & Culture: he created a tasting menu – entrées, soup, mains and desserts – by selecting one specialty, one traditional dish from the culture of each YPO chapter group member. It was amazing, brilliant and his preparations were impeccable and so delicious. What an experience! Dinner was followed by drinks and conversation out on the terrace, the end to a wonderful evening.

The following day, Cathy took me to visit the Grand Mosque, awe-inspiring, gorgeous, regal. Ablaze in the bright sunshine and searing heat, white Indian sandstone shaped into squares and rectangles, arches opening up onto long marbled hallways surrounding peaceful, green squares of gardens. Shoes carefully tucked away into cubbyholes and scarf wrapped around our hair, we silently entered the main prayer hall stunning in what seems to be miles of cut tile in turquoise and cerulean, gold and jade, intricate floral patterns intertwining with Quranic verses. The prayer carpet, mostly covered during public visiting hours, is a masterpiece of hand-woven, hand-knotted classical tapestry and design, the second largest single piece carpet in the world. A chandelier of magnificent proportions dazzles, dripping diamonds of light and colors.


A better description comes from the Ministry of Information:

The whole interior of the Grand Mosque is paneled with off-white and dark grey marble paneling clothed in cut tile work. Ceramic floral patterns adorn arch framed mural panels set in the marble forming blind niches in a variety of classical Persian, predominantly Safavid, designs. The ceilings are inspired by those of Omani forts. The mihrab in the main prayer hall is framed by a border of Quranic verses and a gilded ceramic surround. The dome comprises a series of ornate, engraved stained glass triangles within a framework of marble columns, and a Swarovski crystal chandelier with gold-plated metalwork hangs down for a length of 14 meters.

photo: Traveling Cows

We wandered in and out and through the peaceful alleys and gardens until the heat of a Middle Eastern afternoon became more than we could bear. So, cold drinks in hand, off we zipped in Cathy’s little sports car to another beachside resort for a wonderful Omani/Lebanese lunch. A few hours later, I found myself back once more in an airport… As magnificent as was Muscat, the little that I saw and experienced, I found the Oman International airport rather typical of a third world country, bare halls and rather rudimentary security measures to say the least. And finally snuggled into my seat aboard my KLM flight, which would take me back to Amsterdam and then finally home and into the long-waiting arms of JP, I closed my eyes, breathless, still barely believing what I had just lived.


An experience like this comes but rarely – though I hope that this is far from the last – and although I wished that I had had much longer to discover this amazing country and her people, I learned so much about people in general, about how food and culture excite passion in so many and that we all have such strong emotions when it comes to our own cuisine even in our enthusiasm to discover new ones. No matter the culture, no matter our background, no matter our traditions, food brings us together, a passion so many of us share and the desire to hold onto and transmit our own culture to our children, share it with family and friends is inherent in each of us.

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REMEMBERING

The small flag we found planted in front of mom's house the morning of 9/11

For some, life is divided into pre-9/11 and post-9/11. For others, pre-Katrina and post-Katrina defines their world and dots their conversation. In my own private world, everything changed the day my brother died.


10 years since 9/11, 6 years since Katrina, just 2 years since ALS, Lou Gehrig’s Disease, took my brother from me and tipped my world askew. Tragedy and disaster come to each of us in ways both large and small and split our life in two. Before and after are the only words we find to give expression to the pain, articulate how the sadness and loss fill our days and nights, communicate our incomprehension. As I sat and watched the families of those who died on 9/11 collapse into tears even ten years later, all that I felt bubbled up uncontrollably to the surface and I understood how they felt. The wound remains fresh and bleeding, a gaping hole filled with hurt and memories.

And we hold on even as we counsel ourselves and each other that time will heal the pain and we will move on. We revisit the memories, coax up the answers to Where were you when? and What were you doing when? We may feel guilty for letting go, feel a responsibility to those whom we lost. We analyze over and over, relive the moments before, during and after again and again, wondering if we could have, should have done things differently, helped more, been aware of the signs, taken precautions or been there to hold someone’s hand. And maybe we are simply afraid to let go, fear the forgetting. We dread the moment we forget the sound of their voice, the touch of their hand, as their laughter fades into wind and we mourn the loss of childhood memories one by one. And so we turn back and hold on in as tight a grip as possible.

August melts into September and autumn appears on the distant horizon. I wait for the magic of leaves turning to gold and ruby, the gentle kiss of the breeze cool against my skin and the dipping of the sun leaving a burning pink smear of brightness across the late afternoon sky as it does this time of year. Images of Katrina splash across my television screen for days, weeks then quickly metamorphose into billowing puffs of smoke framing streaks of silver against pale blue, searing heat orange and black to a soundtrack of fear. Leaving, now, as quickly as it arrived, reliving the past, honoring the heroes and wondering how these tragedies changed our lives. Are we stronger, more confident in our purpose, more determined to live each day to the fullest? Or are we wary of the world, feeling betrayed and confused, angry that something or someone, that our dream was taken away from us? We deplore the loss of our own wide-eyed innocence, that magical part of our life, the end of childhood.


I often think about what purpose serves a food blog and what is “permissible” to write about. Am I limited to talking only about food and restricted to discussing why I baked this dish or that cake? Pretty photos of farmer’s markets and mouthwatering images of rich desserts framed by a flawless life, laid out to perfection on a picnic table strewn with rose petals and cheer are certainly what we aim for, titillating the tastebuds and teasing the imagination, inviting each and every reader into an always-warm, cozy kitchen or out for a exciting voyage. But what do we do with the sadness and hurt, the destruction and the failure? How do we share the unsavory events of a life while passing out plates of sweets? Do we treat our readers as friends or as simply clients come to have a good time?

Should my life be an open book with all the ups and downs, the successes and failures, the dilemmas, tragedies and loss nestled in a cozy embrace with the sweet memories and happy times? Or should I portray a perfect, fairytale life where my sons are always delightful, my husband always loving, my kitchen always clean and my world always utopian? Shall we stand at the door of each and every 9/11 or those last few days of a dark and watery August and only talk of hopes and dreams, the blessings that we count every day or do we ponder the destruction, commemorate the heroic and cry over the dead? I find it incomprehensible that some can smile and look on the bright side without understanding the dark events of a lifetime. Contentment is often born of anger, happiness delivered on a bed of misery and loss. That perfect romantic dream, that ideal home and family is illusory. We are all just a little broken somewhere, and I love my friends who don’t try and hide their faults or their scars, who, like me, laugh at their own foibles and live their honesty on their sleeves.

Joy and love fill my life, touch it every day, yet that life is truly incomplete without the sadness that allows me to appreciate how wonderful the happiness is.

Michael and his dog Buster

Another photo of me and Michael

As I stood over my brother’s grave, brushed wisps of dead grass off the headstone, as I measured the footsteps between him and our father lying under a similar square of bronze, I thought about what I owe him, not only my responsibility to keep his memory alive but all that he had done for me in my life, his never-ending support and encouragement, his laughter and his jokes, his wisdom and guidance. I weep in sadness and clench my fists in anger at the injustice of it all, and know that before and after shape my every day, pepper my thoughts and color my world in shades of soothing pink to steely gray. September 15 comes but once a year yet I mourn his passing, my loss, every single day. We remember so we never forget.

August 29

September 11

September 15

The walls we build around us to keep the sadness out also keep out the joy.
- Jim Rohn

Just a few announcements:


I am flying off to the Sultanate of Oman where I have been invited by the Young Presidents' Organization to be the keynote speaker for a chapter cultural event. I will be speaking on Food & Culture.


This week, I and Life’s a Feast have been featured on Toronto Cooking. For their Spotlight on Italian Cuisine, I offer you my own take on the much-loved Torta di Ricotta with a delightful, creamy Plum-topped Ricotta Tart.


From Plate to Page has a new look! A nod and a hug to Meeta, Ilva and Jeanne along with two of the men in my life who together have created a new Plate to Page logo and website! The look has changed but the content is just as exciting: the original intensive hands-on weekend Food Writing, Styling and Photography Workshop as well as guest posts by professional food writers, food photographers and stylists, prop stylists and more offering you their look into their own fascinating world. Stay connected for all the news and updates!

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CHOCOLATE BLUEBERRY MUFFINS

EATING : MY AMERICAN EXPERIENCE


I always put on a few pounds whenever I come back home to visit. Donuts and hamburgers with everything on it (not to mention the fries), milkshakes and pizza; no matter how I try and stick to the salads, fresh fruit and good sense, the pull of the foods I grew up on is too strong for me. My self-restraint melts away in front of each diner, my self-control stays out in the parking lot, withering in the scalding Florida sun as I stroll the aisles of my favorite supermarket and the constant, endless parade of restaurant menus scream out to me, grab me by the arms and shake all reason straight out of my head, luring me with the fried, the barbecued and the cheesy. And the fun of being 16 again holds too great a charm, popping out to a favorite haunt with friends, sitting over baskets of goodies, sipping soda or beer and giggling over old times. But as the jeans get a tad snugger, the zipper that much harder to pull closed, I scold myself for my gluttony, that evil little voice whispers in my ear reminding me how I will feel when I return to France and I try and muster up the courage to shake my head no and wave away the next temptation.

But this trip home, I decided to leave my guilt packed up in my suitcase and indulge! A weekend in New Orleans netted incredible beignets, dense yet airy and oh-so chewy, hidden under an abundance of snowy powdered sugar; pralines and turtles nibbled while on a stroll through the French Quarter; perfect macarons and chocolates at Sucré; fried oyster po’boys prepared by Pierre Maspero’s for an IFBC meal. The traditional Mocha Frappuccino shared with my mom once home on the range and platters of ribs slathered with thick, tangy, spicy sauce and served up with loads of fried potatoes and a cool, crunchy dill pickle, a meal best eaten with at least one of my sons, arrived hard and fast practically straight from the airport. Yes, I have always been a glutton, food my Achille’s Heel, and each time I step out of the airport into the sultry heat of a Florida summer evening a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me, bringing me back to the best place of my youth: food.


You can never go home again, the old saying goes. Yet they also say that every time we return home, we each become the child we were again. The truth lies somewhere in between, at least where I am concerned. I feel older, wiser, foreign, somehow. I never really felt like I fit in here. Surrounded by schoolmates blossoming into tanned, leggy young women, their straight, shiny blond hair flowing down their backs, fluttering in the breeze, pretty, confident and popular I was the eternal pal, the Plain Jane, the ugly duckling; there were lots of hallway “hellos”, yet no party invitations, lots of friends but never part of a group, just one step outside. I also realized that I felt I just didn’t have that much in common with many of these people, never enjoyed the Beach Bunny lifestyle, didn’t feel really at home where I was. I felt marooned. And I yearned for more, something unconventional, something extraordinary. So I packed up and left, returning only occasionally, each visit home from a world more foreign and distant. I truly became a different person, a new woman. I grew and changed, learned new languages and habits, adapted to a new way of life and found a world where I felt comfortable, myself. Yet I kept one part of my American life close within reach, the foods I loved and grew up on. Comforting when I feel too far from my family, familiar when the world around me feels strange and alien.

So when I get to Florida and settle into my old bedroom, something clicks in and the cravings wrap around me like an old sweater, promising me comfort and love like a favorite doll. Food and TV and shopping, the trilogy of what bonds me to my mom, is a fatal attraction, an enticement that I have no control over because it is irrevocably linked to home. From the moment we drive over the bridge, the dark water of the Indian River bobbing lazily below my feet, and the ocean rushes forward, waves crashing up onto the beach appearing on the horizon, the hunger wiggles up and bites me, settling in. And doesn’t leave until each and every wild, fried, sugary craving is satisfied.


And part of that experience of home is reliving my youth… but better. As I now sit with old friends become new over beers and glasses of wine, all the talk of parties and surfing, parties and school events, pranks and parties just flies over my head. I smile and nod and admit that I never attended, never partied or hung out at the beach, never drove up Tropical Trail late at night or crashed at this one’s house or the other. They stare goggle-eyed and tease me and ask how I ever got through those years. Well, honestly, I guess I stayed at home curled up with a good book and ate. But each trip back, I make up for missed opportunities, live adventures I didn’t the first time around, and happily I find friends to pull me into that magic circle and relive our teen years again. But only better. I went to my very first high school football game last Friday night. Sure, make fun of me if you will but the truth must be told. It seems to be almost un-American not to have attended at least one football game while in high school, but it apparently escaped me. No gang of friends to hang out with, not much of school spirit where sports were concerned, I avoided the rah-rah’s and the cheers, feeling less than foxy in front of the oh-so hot pom pom girls, and just was not that interested. But my friend Terri and her husband Fred picked me up and brought me to the game, which we watched from the sidelines (not the bleachers) like the VIPs that we are. The heat eased in the elegant, lazy warm ocean breeze and we wandered around the track that circled the field back and forth, went and ogled the pizza and hot dogs being sold from rickety tents and metal folding tables, the corner of the playing field the most crowded.


Fascinated by the whole American eating thing, the myths and the realities, the traditions and the shocking eatables I read about from afar, all that I wanted to capture and write about, as the smells of frying and grilling waft up and around me, tickling my nostrils and my fancy and urging me to eat, I decided to take photos of the foods that typified this culture, all that crossed my path. Outdoor festival and fair food in my city of Nantes has similarities with this American experience, yet the grilled, spicy merguez sausages stuffed in a chunk of baguette and slathered with mustard followed by cones of fried, sugared churros are balanced out with crêpes hot off the griddle, platters of succulent raw oysters and steaming bowls of marinated mussels. Not so here… as I casually walked up behind this stranger and kindly asked him if I could snap a picture of his hot dog (only to be scolded and laughed at by a shocked Terri), as people lined up for boxes of pizza and ice cream treats, a delightful and surprising announcement boomed over the loudspeaker exciting me and titillating my curiosity more than my tastebuds: right after the game, fried oreos would be sold from a special food booth in the church parking lot across the street right after the game. Whoopie! Who would ever have thought that I would come even remotely close, find myself face to face with any one of these incredible, uniquely American battered and deep-fried foods that I have been reading so much about with shock, amazement, amusement and, need I add, disgust?

Terri and I impatiently waited for the end of the game and immediately ran across the street like two high school girls looking for a hot party with hot surfer guys. The smell reached us as we made our way across the dark parking lot, the bright glare of the overhead streetlamps creating brilliant circles of blinding sunlight on the black tar. We pressed into the crowd pushing towards the folding tables lined with frosty sodas and bottles of water. Red tickets clutched in our hands, we watched as the hot, sizzling breaded snacks were lifted out of the bubbling oil and nestled into white paper napkins one by one. We waved two tickets and nodded as the church lady held up two and we walked out of that parking lot, back towards the car staring with disbelief at our treasures, afraid, truly afraid to be the first to take a bite. After taking photos in the dark, we dared the other to be the first, laughing at ourselves and at our own fear. Then finally, finally, we both bit into this culinary curiosity at once, chewed slowly, savored, and finally, eyes closed in pleasure, admitted that, in fat, they were pretty tasty. And as I relished the experience, as I wondered that I was eating and enjoying this fried oreo, I thought to myself with a smirk on my lips: “What’s next? Fried butter?”

I baked for my mom. She buys muffins from the supermarket bakery, blueberry or chocolate chip, and eats one every morning for breakfast. And have I told you that she has an enormous sweet tooth, one that may shock and surprise anyone who sees her frail body and bird-like eating habits. And chocolate is at the top of her list. So when she bought me a small cookbook of Cupcakes & Muffins I selected the perfect morning treat to bake for her: Chocolate Blueberry Muffins. And perfect they were, light and delicate, tender and just moist with the pop of sweet blueberries in every bite. Just the way mom loves her muffins.


CHOCOLATE BLUEBERRY MUFFINS
From Cornerstones’ Cupcakes & Muffins, slightly altered

1 ¾ cups (220 g) flour
4 tsp baking powder
Heaping ¼ cup (30 + g) unsweetened cocoa powder
½ cup (100 g) granulated sugar
1 cup (250 ml) milk
1 large (American extra-large) egg, lightly beaten
¼ cup (60 ml) vegetable/canola oil
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup (about 125 g) fresh or frozen blueberries

1/2 cup (95 g) semisweet chocolate chips, optional
¼ tsp ground cinnamon, optional

Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Line a standard 12-cup muffin tin with cupcake papers.

Sift the flour, backing powder and cocoa together in a large mixing bowl. Stir in the sugar. Stir in either the chocolate chips or ground cinnamon if using. I added neither. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients.

Whisk together the milk, oil, egg and vanilla then pour into the well. Blend well then fold in the whole blueberries.

Divide the batter evenly among the 12 lined muffin cups. Use a soup ladle to make it easier and cleaner.

Bake for 20 – 25 minutes or until puffed and set and a tester inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove the muffin tins from the oven and allow to cool on a rack for 5 minutes before removing the muffins from the tins and allowing to cool completely.

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LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL - IFBC NOLA

Madame Lily Devalier always asked "Where are you?" in a way that insinuated that there were only two places on earth one could be: New Orleans and somewhere ridiculous.

- Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

I’ve experienced New Orleans vicariously through the life my son has led over the course of the past year. Telephone calls filled with barbecues and po’boys, gumbo and jambalaya, Mardi Gras and brass bands. Excited words expressing the enthusiasm and passion of an entire town, the people of this magnificent city. A people and a city both rising from the rubble of Katrina like a phoenix, proud and beautiful, so appreciative for the love of those who came to help rebuild, such as my son. The romance of this very romantic city touched even a 21-year-old young man normally oblivious to his surroundings, usually wary of attachment and so very matter-of-fact. The generosity and the spirit of the locals galvanized him, their own love of The City of Jazz and Cuisine left an imprint on his soul that moved me and urged a visit.

New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin.
- Mark Twain

I have experienced the American food blogging scene as through a glass darkly: watching from some hazy distance, a tiny peephole my only access, the activity on the other side of the door confusing and distorted, voices muffled. I have been mystified by the seemingly paradoxical extremes of positive and negative: the closeness and the cliques, the camaraderie and the competition, the honesty and the artifice. I have longed for the familiarity and passion of a world at once so close to my heart yet so far, yearned for the kinship and the support of a culture that I know so well, that fits me like a well-worn sweater shrugged on in the chill of a strange land. Yet the pandering and the falseness have inspired me with caution, the desperation and jealousy, the mean-girl snideness I have witnessed from afar has turned many a friend from their creative purpose and they have bowed their heads in shame and sadness. It has left me confused as to the heart and soul of the food blogging world, and I so needed to find myself on their shores, in their midst to discover for myself the truth of the matter.

Thus I found myself at Foodista’s International Food Blogger Conference in New Orleans surrounded by a hundred or more passionate, gentle, warm-hearted bloggers and professional writers, photographers and chefs. I was swept up in the excitement that being in such a breathtaking, sensational city inspired in each of us, the frenzy to discover such a culinary tradition and partake of the edible wonders of this fabled city. The enthusiasm and passion for this extraordinary thing that brought us together: food, writing, photography and cooking was intense and infectious and we shared and chattered non-stop, arms waving, faces lit up, laughter bubbling up and bouncing from one person to the next. There was no hierarchy; these cliques and the snubbing I had heard so much about simply did not exist; we all stood in that hotel as equals, thrilled at the chance to share our zeal, fulfill our hunger and feed our curiosity, meeting others with whom we share such passion and interest. This conference proved the interconnectedness of blogging with the professional food world and showed how we could merge into one rather than standing separately.

If there was no New Orleans,
America would just be a bunch of free people dying of boredom.
- Judy Deck in an e-mail sent to Chris Rose, 1 Dead in Attic

The conference itself, organized by Barnaby, Sheri and Andie of Foodista along with Zephyr Adventures, was perfect: it went like clockwork, the food was amazing and the lineup of chefs and speakers was stunning! I had the honor to be part of an exciting and inspiring panel, speaking on the topic Food & Culture alongside Jay of Bite and Booze and the wonderful Dianne Jacob of Will Write for Food. I was more nervous than I had hoped to be but the topic is close to my heart, one I live each and every day and the words tumbled from my mouth and my soul. The room was packed with eager, interested participants who questioned and shared, fascinated by the subject, making the session a huge success.

photo courtesy of Amy The Nifty Foodie

One thing we all loathe and myself maybe more than most is the artful ploy of namedropping, yet I cannot pass up this post without, well, dropping names. Why? Because I was thrilled to meet certain people, inspired by their words and delighted to leave IFBC with more friendships than I could have ever imagined would be formed in such a short period of time. This, after all, is why we attend these things, isn’t it? To avoid gushing, which I am sometimes prone to do when so happy to have met and spent time with the wonderful and the inspiring, I will say thank you to a few who I had the good fortune to meet and listen to, with whom I had the chance to chat and share, those who left a mark, encouraged me, made me think and made me laugh, those with whom I formed what I hope will be long and lasting friendships or those who turned my world upside down with their thoughtful words and passion: Gwen, Sarah, Lora, Nancie, Dianne, Lisa, Merry-Jennifer, Kevin, Jeremy, Andie, Sheri and Barnaby, Kate, Kat, Shauna and Deb, Andrew, Robin and Adam, Chef Tariq Hanna, Chef John Besh and Chef John Mitzewich. As the fabulous and hysterically funny Nancie called us: new vintage friends.


The weekend was animated, informative, intense and, for lack of a more perfect word and at the risk of repeating myself once too often, inspiring. And not the less so for the bonds it created, the friendships and memories made. As I head back to my own little corner of the world so far away, I leave you with some photos (courtesy of Sarah, Gwen, Nancie and Lora as well as some of my own) of our time spent together. As I return to finalizing details on our own From Plate to Page workshop to be held in Italy in October, I hold onto the memories of this weekend in New Orleans, all I learned, all whom I met, the good times we shared and know that I will return to this magical city again and I am sure that I will attend another American conference and see my friends again.

Leaving New Orleans also frightened me considerably. Outside of the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland begins.
- John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Outings included Café du Monde for fabulous beignets, Mr. B's Bistro for the Gumbo and GW Fins for a fabulous dinner and memorable food, Sucré for macarons and chocolates and Mena's for cheese & grits.

Who would imagine that we spent more time talking about Nigeria than macarons?
photo with Chef Hanna courtesy of Lora

Thank you all, each and every one of you, thank you IFBC, Hotel Monteleone and thank you New Orleans.

photo courtesy of Nancie McDermott

Oh, and did I mention Chef John Besh? The keynote speaker? One rarely has the chance to bask in the passion of such a one as he, or experience his love of food, cooking, family and his own city, New Orleans. It poured out of his every word, his body bouncing from one end of the stage to the other in his excitement to share this love and his story. And then, yes, we girls got a hug, gushing and giggling like teen groupies around their favorite rock star! Yeah… we did…


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